MEN IN BLACK
by Elszy
Summary: The lads are caught in the middle of a bank robbery. When Bodie disappears, Doyle must do everything he can to find his partner.
1. A bank in ruins

This one's for Nina. Encouragement does wonders. Now you go, girl. Cheers.

_.-.-.-.-._

_MEN IN BLACK by Elszy_

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**Chapter 1: A bank in ruins**

CI5's first man George Cowley stepped over the mess in the smashed wall. What once had been a fine bank establishment had turned into what looked like the remains of a war zone. Police were keeping curious bystanders at a distance. An ambulance stood brotherly next to two police cars in the middle of the road. Inside the bank police officers took statements, little fires were extinguished and hot tea was offered to the shaken men and women in the far corner. Paramedics applied bandaids and handed out blankets to the shocked people inside.

One of Cowley's best agents, Ray Doyle, sat on a the shattered remains of a granite column. He held up his hand while a paramedic treated it with iodine and gauze. With his other hand he held an icepack against the back of his head. A tiny rivulet of blood ran from under his curls into his T-shirt. He was covered in chalk and dust, easily adding twenty years to his age.

'Doyle! Are you alright?'

'Huh?'

'Are you alright?' Cowley's leg bothered him and that made him grumpy.

'Sir. Wha'?'

'Doyle!'

Doyle tried to look up to meet the impatient Scotsman and saw the room spinning. 'Sorry sir, 'm a bi' woozy,' Doyle mumbled and had to swallow away a very distasteful feeling.

'For God's sake, speak up man!'

Cowley eased a bit when Murphy, who had come in after him, put a hand on his sleeve. 'Sir…'

It was then that Cowley noticed that Doyle's cut hand wasn't the only injury. His clothes were torn and from nearly every cut in his face, his arms and legs blood found its way out in thin web-shaped lines. His eyes were slightly glassy and he kept shaking his head very slowly.

'Is he alright?' Cowley now addressed the paramedic.

'Slightly concussed from falling bricks, sir. And a lot of bruises and cuts. He should take it easy for a couple of days. The shockwave from the blast has shaken him up a little.'

Shockwave?

'Doyle, what happened?' Cowley sat down next to his agent and eyed him intensively. His voice had lost its irritation and was now warm with concern. From his pocket he took a small flask of malt and made his agent drink. 'Come, lad. Another sip. You need it.' He spoke slowly and deliberately. 'What happened?'

Doyle winced when the paramedic cut open his trousers and revealed a huge bruise, dark red and deep purple in the middle. 'That's blackest son-of-a-bruise I ever saw,' the paramedic stated with an encouraging smile and put a pressure bandage around his upper leg. To Doyle's grunt he said: 'Sorry, mate. 'That'll hurt for a few days. You might want to have that checked in the hospital.'

'Maybe,' said Doyle, sounding a bit more lucid, once the malt began to kick in. He took the icepack from his head and carefully touched it. 'I've got a bump the size of a tennis ball,' he grunted. Confused he looked at his hand, that was smeared with streaks of blood and dirt.

'Doyle,' George Cowley said again, 'tell me what happened.'

Suddenly Doyle's head shot up and his green-blue eyes grew wide when he finally remembered the events that had led to the utter mess in this building. 'Bodie! Bodie was shot! Where is he? Is he alright?'

Cowley was unable to answer him. He looked up and met Murphy's eyes. That latter shook his head. 'He's not here, Doyle.'

* * *

(tbc)


	2. Quiet

Chapter 2: Quiet

* * *

It had begun when Bodie picked up Doyle to go to work.

'You mind stopping at the bank?' the curly headed man asked. He waved with a piece of paper. 'A cheque for yours truly. Sold my old camera.'

Bodie smiled. 'Ah, you've got money to spare, have you Ray? As it happens, my guitar isn't what it used to be. You could be a good Samaritan instead of a greedy agent. Tell you what - you can keep a few bob for a hair cut.'

Doyle grinned. 'Drive, Eric Clapton. If you're good, I'll put you in my will.'

'A good what? Colleague? Partner? Agent? Musician?'

When Doyle didn't answer but just grinned, Bodie sighed and started the car. 'I always dreamt of career in music. But you've just given it the _coup de grâce.'_

'Excuse me? Coup what? Have you been watching French movies again?'

'It means the final blow, you illiterate man. Where's your bank?'

Doyle sniggered. 'Southside Savings & Loans. That's on Beardsley Street. Turn left here. By the way - remember Sheila? The pretty brunette who sings so well? She works there.'

'Hm,' Bodie said, raising a crooked eyebrow and smiling smugly. 'I suddenly remember I do have some business to attend to in the bank.'

-.-.-.-

The two men entered the bank, Doyle gallantly holding the door for Bodie. 'Thank you, my son.'

'You're welcome,' said Doyle and followed Bodie inside. The two walked towards the counter. While Doyle fished the cheque from his pocket, Bodie looked around as a pretty girl passed him by. It wasn't Sheila, but she was just as pretty and she smiled at him. His look lingered on her appearance when he caught something in his peripheral vision.

Four men, dressed in black, entered the bank and Bodie saw it, before anyone else did. 'GUN!

His warning mingled with the sound of a gunshot. The impact threw him sideways sideways and he smacked hard on the elegant marble tiles of the floor. To Doyle's horror Bodie instantly went totally still.

'Bodie!' shouted Doyle, fear gripping his heart in an iron hold. 'Bodie!'

A woman screamed, a long high pitch that resonated in the air.

'Quiet!' One, deeply spoken word. The bank robber pointed his gun at her, to which her eyes grew wide with fear, but it had the desired effect. Instantly she shut her mouth and pressed her lips firmly together.

'Bodie… Bodie!' Doyle's heart skipped a beat. He slid on his knees over the floor as a goalie going over the ice for the puck. Bodie lay dead still. His eyes were closed, his long dark eyelashes threw a shadowy maze on his cheeks. 'Bodie, mate… talk to me…' Doyle heard his own voice, dry and gritty with fear.

This was not looking good.

From an inch above Bodie's left temple a mean gash ran at least five inches into his hairline, and it was deep, exposing the raw flesh all too clearly. Blood wetted his hair and dripped on the white marble. Doyle's throat was squeezed shut by an invisible hand - Bodie was entirely unresponsive. His hands, fingers, shoulders, legs and feet - totally limp. Doyle put his ear to Bodie's chest in search for a heartbeat. _No no no no no… yes!_ There it was. It sounded more distant than should be, it seemed, but it was there. He would have given a million right now if Bodie would have opened one eye and mocked him by saying something stupid like "never knew you'd care". But nothing of the kind happened.

Doyle patted Bodie's right cheek softly. 'Bodie, can you hear me?' he tried again. Nothing stirred, not even a tiny fluttering of eyelids. 'Bodie, come on mate, open your eyes. This is no time to take a nap. Nor the pla…'

He felt a hard push against his side, someone yanked a shoe against his hip. 'Quiet,' the bank robber who had spoken to the woman said again.

'This man is…'

'Quiet.'

'The hell with quiet! He needs help,' Doyle spat, 'and you're not going…'

The click of the gun that was cocked sounded like canon ball in the furthermore eerie silent bank.

'Quiet,' said the bank robber in his low voice for the third time to Doyle, steadily holding the gun just a few inches from Doyle's face. The CI5 agent swallowed back the rest of his retort, then nodded reluctantly. Okay, so they weren't supposed to talk or make a sound.

He was about to take off his jacket and form a makeshift pillow for Bodie when he realised his gun would show. That would not go down well with the bank robbers. 'Sorry,' he whispered to Bodie. 'Hold on, sunshine.'

Again a warning poke against his hip and the bank robber pointed him to a spot. He gestured with the gun. _Sit down here_, that meant. Strange, but the less the bank robbers spoke, the better everyone seemed to understand.

He nodded and after a last look on Bodie he slid back over the smooth tiles to where the man had indicated.

'Sit. On. Hands.' ordered the man and again Doyle could do nothing else but obey.

Bodie remained where he was, in the middle of the bank floor. There was a star shaped pattern right where he was laying. His spread-out arms touched the tips of the star. It was a strange, almost macabre sight. Doyle suddenly had a very vivid flash of a crucifixion and it hit him so hard, that he had to literally shake his head to lose the image.

_Bodie, hang in there, mate. This'll be over soon._

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(tbc)


	3. Clever bunch

Chapter 3: Clever bunch

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They were a clever bunch, Doyle thought as, since he couldn't do anything to help Bodie, he assessed the situation carefully. Southside Savings & Loans was a small sized bank, established in a not too large but nevertheless imposing building from the late 1920's. Doyle had an account there and although he paid little visits to the place, he appreciated the personal approach and the friendly staff. On several occasions he had dated girls who worked there - he recognised Anita, the lovely girl of Jamaican descent, who know sat terror-stricken on the floor a few yards further. He gave her an encouraging smile which she nervously replied with a shaky nod.

Shaky, yeah right. That's what Doyle felt himself and it wasn't something he often experienced. His partner out cold and badly injured on the floor and him being unable to do anything had that effect. He and Bodie had come in totally unprepared for this. The only thing Doyle was set out to do, was make a deposit and then - it all happened so fast. Bodie spotted the bank robber a second before Doyle did and responded by reaching for his gun, but before he could do anything, the bank robber fired his weapon.

One shot. And for a second that lasted longer than a lifetime, Doyle's world stopped turning when he saw Bodie going down. The robber had reacted so quickly and so coolly, that Doyle couldn't shake the feeling that it was not the first time that that man, whom Doyle thought to be in charge, had shot someone.

It was sheer luck that the robbers hadn't searched for a gun. When Bodie went down, his RT had fallen from his hand, much to Doyle's surprise too. He was convinced Bodie went for his gun, and obviously the robber thought the same. Seeing an RT was unexpected and the robber lost interest, so he had looked at the injured man for no longer than a second or two. Then he smashed the RT with the butt of the machine gun. Doyle held his breath. If the robber searched further he was bound to find Bodie's gun, and the robbers had seen them together. Once that was the case, he'd be searched too, and Doyle could forget any chance of striking back. The robber hadn't paid attention to Bodie any longer. Instead, he turned to the counter and the cashier.

This was not a job a couple of rebel teenagers had just decided on in a drunken mood. These men were well trained, had probably done this before. Not a single word was spoken between the four of them and only if necessary, the clients and personnel in the bank were addressed by the man who had shot Bodie. When he did, he spoke in one-syllable words and short sentences. The four men were identically clad in black, from their balaclava's to their black boots: they wore exactly the same outfit. It was impossible to see their eyes as all four wore shades with mirror glasses. That removed the last possibility of an identity - there was no telling them apart. One was slightly bulkier and the speaking guy was a tad taller, but that was were the visible differences ended.

As for the weapons: Bodie would recognise them and recite numerous facts, he was more into that. Doyle knew two men were holding semi-automatic weapons resembling an AKA but they weren't quite the same. The other two were holding smaller handguns, one of which had been used to fire at Bodie. Those types Doyle did recognise: both men had a Browning X4-2Z. Ten rounds in the clip. He squeezed his eyes to try and see more details on the weaponry. Every bit of information could be of use.

Apart from him and Bodie three other clients and two bank clerks were now sitting on the ground, backs against the wall opposite him, put there at spots five feet apart from each other, away from the door. Robber number two was keeping a constant eye on them, his hand steady on the heavy armoury he was carrying. The setup was simple and clever. It was impossible to speak to anyone without it being noticed by the robbers. If Doyle wanted to reach for his gun it would be spotted right away - he couldn't hide behind others.

The bank manager, a slim man named Cedric Bell, was held at gunshot point by number three while his son Jason nervously loaded money in large sports bags. Doyle knew both of them. He had met Cedric Bell during his copper years when the bank manager had helped him sort out his mother's account and he liked the man; his son had recently gotten the job here. Jason went straight from an expensive private school into his father's bank business. Looked like yesterday since Doyle saw him riding around on his new bike when he turned twelve. He was as green as grass and scared shitless. Bell senior had forgotten how to breathe. The gun held so closely made him gasp for air and his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

'Calm. Down.' said the leader to him.

Bell looked like he was drowning.

'Breathe.' ordered the leader.

Again, the fact that he hardly spoke, made his demands more pressing. Bell swallowed with difficulty but did as he was told and indeed he lost the heart attack-frenzy he was about to inflict on himself.

Everything happened in silence. There was only the rustle of the money that Jason feverishly stashed in the bag.

The bank robbers, Doyle realised, were not out to kill anyone, although the leader didn't have that much doubt about gunning a person down when he happened to be in his way. They had gone through a lot of trouble with the identical outfits, the balaclava's and the sunglasses to make sure they wouldn't be recognised. In doing so, the need to get rid of witnesses became a lot smaller.

There was some comfort in that thought. In a few minutes, they'd leave. By the time the police would arrive, they'd be long gone, and nobody else would get hurt. Bodie could be taken to a hospital in time, and CI5 and the police would initiate the chase.

Less than ten seconds after he had come to that conclusion, the tin sound of a man's voice through a megaphone came in from outside. _This is the police. You are surrounded. Surrender. Come out with your hands in the air._

The silent alarm had been triggered? By whom? The bank robbers looked up, just for a second. The leader quickly waved his hand toward the left wall, after which number three stepped that way and took position with his gun ready to fire. Number two moved that way too, but never took his eyes off the people on the floor. Bell and his son continued to fill the bags with money. The leader took a small box, not bigger than a package of cigarettes, from his clothes and pressed a button twice.

_You got to give it to them Ray, they're professionals. They've done their homework. In and out in the blink of an eye. _

And of course, everything took a different turn.

No matter how much was planned, there was always something unforeseen…

Bodie woke up.

* * *

(tbc)


	4. The explosion

Chapter 4: The explosion

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_No! Bodie, don't move!_

Doyle bit back his urge to shout out a warning to his partner. Bodie was coming round, he moaned as he brought his hand to the side of his head. Number two turned his head for an instant to look at him, Bodie's eyes darted across the ceiling unfocussed and confused and clearly in pain, to which the robber decided the injured man posed no danger.

That was a mistake. Despite Bodie's substantial injury, CI5 training kicked in and controlled the agent's moves. While he held his head with his right hand, his left slipped under his back and produced the gun.

It all happened fast. Very fast.

Bodie aimed for number number two, who saw the movement from the corners of his eyes and spun around to duck sideways, causing Bodie's shot to graze his shoulder. Bodie's energy was short-lived - his head fell back immediately and powerlessly lolled sideways. The shot the bank robber fired missed him by an inch. Doyle reached for his gun and lunged to his right in a catlike jump but in the same second the side wall of the bank exploded with a deafening bang. From one second onto the other the place turned into a chaos of flying bricks, shattering furniture and heaps of dust. Metal bars that had been on the outside of the windows flew through the air. Glass scattered around like confetti. Electricity cables and wires short-circuited and spat out fiery sparks. Scraps of paper, a minute ago fancy coffee table books and magazines, fluttered through the air like butterflies. People screamed. Amidst the chaos and the noise an armoured truck came barging in seconds after the explosion.

Doyle, who had been close to the right wall, was slammed back by the blast of the explosion and then torpedoed by the debris. Shards of glass cut him, an iron bolt big as a baby's fist slammed into his thigh. Something heavy hit him on the head. Red and blacks balls were dancing around the centre of his vision. His knees faltered.

_No, no, don't pass out. _

Doyle fought the upcoming darkness. Through the swirling dust and his own blurred vision he saw the leader grab Bodie firmly by his jacket and then roughly pull him behind the truck. He wasn't sure he could trust what he saw through the confusing clouds of dust. Was that Jason? His blond hair? Were they forcing him along? What were they doing to Bodie?

_Stay awake. Don't pass out!_

The engines roared louder, the truck went in reverse and left through the huge hole in the wall.

That was the last Doyle saw before the lights went out.

.-.-.-.

(tbc)


	5. Home

Chapter 5: Home

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'And that's it, sir. After that, it's all kinda hazy.' Doyle finished his report and coughed vehemently. There was still so much dust swirling around that it made him cough and wheeze, caused his a gritty sensation to his eyes and made them run. 'Don't know what happened to Bodie,' he croaked.

'Neither do I,' said Cowley thoughtfully and looked around in the mess.

'One of those people there told me that she saw Bodie taken by the bank robbers, sir.' David Daniels, one of the other CI5 agents at work at the crime scene, cut in exactly when Doyle was about to stand up and start the search for Bodie himself.

'What?' Doyle blinked his eyes rapidly to get the tears away. They took Bodie with them?

'She saw how two of the robbers picked him up and put him in the back of the truck.'

'Why?' Cowley asked slowly, a distant, puzzled look in his eyes. 'An injured man will only slow them down.'

'Apparently the banker's son was taken too.' Murphy, who had been talking to the girl Doyle had dated a couple of months back, added this new information. She still looked very upset.

'What?'

'His name is Jason Bell, son of Cecil Bell. Bell is the managing director. According to miss Anita Ridgely' – Murphy nodded towards the shaken employee – 'he's twenty-two years old, works here since April this year. She saw both Bodie and Jason Bell being pushed into the truck. Then it left.'

'Then I wouldn't be surprised if Cecil Bell receives a letter or a phone call shortly,' Cowley said in his typical _a-haa_-way. He often saw the entire picture of the puzzle long before the pieces were collected. Cowley wasn't the head of CI5 for nothing.

'But that still doesn't explain why they took Bodie,' croaked Doyle and couldn't suppress another bout of coughing.

'We'll find out,' Cowley said and pushed Doyle, who tried to stand up, back on the granite block. 'You are going home.'

'No I'm not,' said Doyle hoarsely. 'Not until Bodie is found.'

'You are going home, and that's an order. Look at yourself, man!' Cowley barked. 'You need rest. You can hardly breathe.'

'That's just the dust. I'll sleep when it's done, sir,' Doyle pleaded. 'Sir, please. You need me here.'

'No, I don't,' Cowley said dismissively. 'Your statement was clear. We focus on the vehicle and the weapons, and a possible hostage plan.' He stood up, gestured Murphy near, spoke softly to him and then turned to other agents.

'Come on, Ray. The old man wants me to drive you home,' Murphy said kindly.

'Murph… I need to find Bodie.'

Murphy put his hand on Doyle's shoulder. 'I know, mate. I worry about him too. But Cowley's right. There're enough people working on the case. You look like hell. You're in no state to get anything done like this.'

'But Murph, he was shot! He was in a bad way and he needs medical care! If he doesn't get that soon, he...' Frustrated he dropped his hand on his knee.

Murphy nodded with a sombre look. 'I know.'

Doyle coughed again to get the dust from his mouth and winced at the pain it caused.

'You need to get out of this place, Ray,' Murphy said and pulled Doyle up by his elbow. 'It's dryer here than my sister's home-baked cookies.'

Despite himself Doyle looked at Murphy for a second before he burst out in short hoarse laugh. 'You're worse than Bodie,' he said and stood up, swaying a little. His leg hurt and he was still a bit dizzy. Murphy discreetly tightened his grip on Doyle a little, which was a nice gesture.

It would however have consoled Doyle a lot more if it had been Bodie who had guided him outside.

-.-.-.

(tbc)


	6. No news

Chapter 6: No news

* * *

'Murph… who tripped the alarm?' asked Doyle. He sat in the seat next to Murphy, who drove the way he was: calm and controlled with an occasional fast move.

'No one did, actually,' his colleague replied to Doyle's surprise. 'I got a beep on my RT, then I heard your voices and firing over Bodie's RT. Apparently it was on, and since he must have relayed his last message to me, I got an open line to what was going on in there. I was close to Beardsley Street, my sister lives there. When I saw Bodie's car, I knew you must be inside and I hit the alarm.'

'That's… weird,' Doyle said after a short silence. The image of Bodie's hand going lax and losing the RT came to mind instantly.

'You reckon he did that on purpose?' Murphy shifted gear and turned the window wipes up a notch. It was rainy, grey day. One that perfectly matched the gloomy circumstances.

'Not likely. He reached for his gun, got shot and was out cold instantly.'

Murphy didn't say anything else, but kept his attention on traffic. It was busy and at some places slippery, and the hard rain did little good to the visibility. Doyle sank a little deeper in the seat, suddenly tired to the bone. It was good thing he didn't drive himself. He would have driven into the a hedge, a street light, another car… He closed his eyes.

_Bodie, mate - hang in there. We're all looking for you. Don't give up. I am going to find you, I promise._

.-.-.-.

Murphy knew that the friendship between Bodie and Doyle was unique. It was characteristic that Doyle fought his weariness to try and find Bodie, even though he should be in bed, maybe even in a hospital. Murphy was a loner. He was never assigned a partner, never asked for one, and never really wanted one. However, he often worked with others when a stand-in or backup was needed.

Frankly, it was a mystery to Murphy why and how Bodie and Doyle got along so well. He liked both men as much as any other, but they were so different that he couldn't see what brought on the chemistry that made them so good. Doyle was a hothead, could be very ill-tempered and morose, depressed even when he became philosophical and took the fate of the world on his shoulders. A trip down memory lane could end up in a lot of fun and laughter just as easily in a quiet, introvert Doyle. It was obvious he cared for a lot of things with deep passion, no matter if it was art, cooking, work, girls, bad guys, good guys, violence, justice: what he did, he did with all his heart.

Bodie was a different chapter. More reserved on the emotions than Doyle, but always goofing around. Sometimes Murphy thought Bodie collected quips and one-liners on mental snippets of papers and then stapled them together to form a life line to get him through the day. Murphy knew a little about Bodie's past. Streetwise. Hard. A jack of all trades and a master of none. Well, not exactly of course. If there was anyone you could rely on, it was Bodie. He did good work, always, and took it to the heart if things got screwed up. He didn't dwell on the past, like Doyle did. Most colleagues found Bodie a bit hard to read, but Murphy didn't feel that way. Bodie was strong on injustice, strong on friendship, strong on commitment. Whomever displayed that, was sure to find a trusted ally in Bodie. He liked music and good food and girls just as much as Doyle, but his passion was different. Then again, Murphy never ceased to be surprised with Bodie's other side. Not often displayed and certainly not to everyone, Murphy knew he was a gentle, even romantic soul, who could, for example, quote easily from a classic, albeit a book, a theatre play or a movie.

Somewhere along the line, the two men had managed to overcome their differences. It made them remarkable. Unique.

Murphy smiled reflectively. He liked being alone. But if he was ever to be partnered up with anyone, he hoped he could be as close to the other as Bodie and Doyle were. A good partner could make or break the job. He liked Bodie and Doyle, and he too was worried about the fate of Bodie.

For now, he was satisfied to wake up Doyle from the short nap in the car, escort him inside and see to it that Doyle crashed down on the sofa where he fell asleep within a minute. He waited for a while and when he was sure that Doyle was not pretending, Murphy left quietly.

.-.-.-.

Two hours, a shower and a sandwich later Ray Doyle parked his car on the CI5 terrain and headed straight for Cowley's office. George Cowley was on the phone as Doyle entered and raised a questioning eyebrow.

'Yes… yes. Thank you for your cooperation.' Then he hung up. 'What the devil are you doing here, 4.5? What part of "go home and sleep" didn't you understand?'

'I feel much better, sir,' Doyle cut him short. 'Any news? Have you heard from Bodie or Jason Bell? Have they asked for a ransom?'

Cowley hesitated one moment, obviously deciding on whether to order him home or to inform him.

Doyle felt anger rising. For crying out loud - he had slept. He was alright. A bit of a headache, but nothing serious. His leg was bruised - so what? Came with the job. He had had more bruises during his CI5-years than he could count, and they all healed by themselves. Sitting at home on the couch didn't speed up that process. 'Come on, sir. I'm of no use to Bodie when I'm in bed, am I? Besides, I can't sleep any longer. I was there, sir. I saw it happen. I want in. Tell me what is going on.'

'Or...?' inquired Cowley coolly. He took off his glasses and eyed Doyle openly.

Doyle bit his lip. Cowley did not take kindly to threats and Doyle knew he'd be sent home in a whiff if he would cross the line. 'Nothing, sir. Sorry. It's just… I feel so useless at home.'

'You are when you are here if you're not fit,' stated Cowley, but his tone of voice was bit less stern.

'I'm fit enough, sir.'

Cowley stood up, rubbed his leg and walked to the window. Rain ran down endlessly. He then turned to Doyle and said: 'No, no call from the robbers. No ransom demand. Nothing. I had a tap installed on Cedric Bell's phone, and he has constant surveillance, but nothing yet.'

'Bugger.' Doyle ran a hand over his face. 'I been going over the case in my mind. I'd like to talk to the people who were there.'

'Their statements have been recorded and they've all gone home,' stated Cowley after another short pause, and then accepted that Doyle was back. 'Why? Do you remember something you couldn't come up with earlier?' There was no irony in his voice. Cowley knew his agent had done his best to remember the details and if things were missing, it could only be attributed to the thump on his head.

'I can't put my finger on it just yet,' Doyle explained slowly, 'but there was something about them that keeps bugging me. Maybe their outfits. The glasses or their shoes… Maybe I'll come up with it if I speak to others about what they've seen.'

'Mm. They were all quite clear: black turtleneck shirt, black trousers, balaclava, glasses, shoes… Men in black. No distinguishable marks. But if you think it might trigger an idea... Here's a list of names.' Over his disk the older man shoved a file towards Doyle. 'The lab is going over the explosives right now. I hope to get information in the next hour. It's not easy to blast away a wall that thick. One needs pretty strong stuff to do so.'

'Specialists stuff?'

'Aye, that's exactly my thought,' nodded Cowley thoughtfully. 'Once the lab establishes the compound, it will narrow down our search.'

_Bodie hasn't got that long. _'How about the truck, sir? Any news?' asked Doyle, trying to ignore the whispers in the back of his mind.

'The testimonies on that part weren't all that unambiguous, which is no wonder with the mess the bank was in when they fled. The license plate was a blank. It might be fake.'

Doyle looked at his hands, realised he'd been making a fist with both and flexed and relaxed his fingers. _Calm down. Keep your act together for Bodie's sake. _'Figures. The robbery was well prepared. They wouldn't be so stupid as to be caught over a license plate. Anything on the brand?'

'A garage holder in the street said it was a dark grey _Dodge Transvan_. That information was spread to the police but up till now it hasn't been found.'

'It's probably in a lockup somewhere,' Doyle concluded. 'They know they must have been spotted.'

Cowley nodded slowly, waving his glasses at Doyle. 'If it's in the streets, we'll find it. That, or it's out of London, and then it'll get a lot harder. Go and speak to the people on the list. Compare their stories to what you remember,' he ordered. 'Connect the dots.'

Doyle already had his hand on the doorknob, the list in the other. 'Will do.'

'O, and 4.5?'

'Sir?'

'No heroics. If there's anything at all, you contact HQ straight away. Anything at all, you hear me? No solo business. We want to get our man back, not lose another.'

* * *

(tbc)


	7. George Orwell

Chapter 7: George Orwell

* * *

Peter Mulligan's shoulder hurt. The bullet had gone clean through and seemed to have caused only little damage, but it nevertheless felt as if a glowing hot poker had been stabbed into his shoulder. Since he could move everything more or less as usual and the bleeding had stopped a while ago, it was safe to say he had been lucky.

With a depressing feeling he looked down at the tall, dark haired man on the ground. If Peter's shoulder was aching, then how about that man's head? Apart from his moment of revival in which he had proved himself to be an excellent marksman despite his injury, he had been unconscious all the time. All colour had drained from his face and his limpness scared Peter. What if this man died? Did that make him an accessory to murder?

This was not supposed to happen.

'Peter, it's your call,' said George. He took the empty scotch glass from Peter's hand and laid his long, slender fingers encouragingly on Peter's lower arm. 'He did this to you. It's your call. It's up to you to decide what you want to do with him.'

'What?' Peter blinked his eyes, that stung with sweat. 'W-w-what do you mean?'

'Peter, dear boy… he shot you. It's only fair that you should choose the proper revenge.'

'R-r-revenge?' Peter didn't understand, or perhaps he didn't want to.

'Of course. This man cannot go unpunished now, can he? That's why I took him along. Since he's the shooter and you were his target, I want you to take the lead in this. You decide on the payback.'

'But…'

'I am so sorry, I see you don't fully understand yet,' said George patiently. 'It's the way of nature, Einstein figured it out years ago. Action equals reaction. One deed deserves another. He shot you, now you will shoot him. Surely you don't want to disturb the natural order of things, do you now Peter? As I said: action equals reaction.'

Peter didn't know if he could trust his ears. 'But… you shot him first,' he said uneasily.

'Dear boy, I had no choice. He pulled out a gun and was about to shoot you, remember?'

But that was AFTER George had shot the broad shouldered man, in the short moment in which he had come round. Peter swallowed with difficulty.

'Can't we just leave him here?' He looked from the man with the gruesome headwound on the ground to the shed around him. They had driven about thirty miles and Steven had parked the truck in one of their many hiding places, this time an old dilapidated shed in the country on land that belonged to George's family.

'No.' George smiled while he shook his head. 'Of course not. You must think of a way to get rid of him. You're a bright young man, Peter. I'm sure you can come up with a good idea.'

'I d-d-don't understand,' Peter said softly. 'The guns were fake.'

Again, the man who stood so close to him, smiled reassuringly and patiently. 'All but mine, Peter. Just a precaution. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Unfortunately today was such a day. Peter, my trusted friend - sometimes things happen that we cannot predict. In cases like that, it's good to have a backup plan.'

But, Peter thought, a backup plan surely didn't mean _killing_ anyone, did it?

.-.-.-.

Peter Mulligan was seventeen years old, a school dropout, unemployed and bored to death when he met George Orwell. Yes, that was his real name, and he did not appreciate jokes about it. To young Peter this George Orwell was a lot more interesting than his famous namesake. Orwell was a handsome, charismatic man in his early thirties, with deep-set brown eyes, thick, brown, shoulder long hair and a broad chin. He was quite tall and looked around with a lazy, slightly mocking smile, as if everything he saw amused him in a way nobody understood. Peter had no idea what attracted him so much in Orwell. Maybe it was his utterly relaxed air. Orwell had a way of wrapping people around his finger. He could be halted by the police for speeding and still get away with no more than a gentle warning. He could nick an apple from a fruit vendor and get a napkin instead of a rant. There were lots of women totally smitten with him, but he had no steady relationship, even though he could date at least ten girls at the same time and have them approve it.

Orwell was a phenomenon to Peter. The man had outgrown himself, was larger than life. Orwell represented status, knowledge and power, and Peter could only admire him from a distance. Literally - Orwell was always surrounded by young men and women who all tried hard to get into his inner circle of trustees. Being seen with George Orwell was a certain way to rise the ladder of social status and gain envy and awe from friends. George Orwell however seemed bored with the wannabes. He smoked his _cigarillos_ without paying attention to the eager youngsters who tried to gain a place close by his side. The fact that he remained so totally uninterested in them made them try even harder.

Peter Mulligan didn't even try. He was an insecure teenager who believed himself to be invisible to the likes of the George Orwell-types of the world. Instead of trying to get close to him, he observed Orwell as much as he could and then practised being like him when he was alone. He imitated his stance and looked at himself in the mirror, pretending to have the same aura that Orwell had. He tried to get the same timbre in his voice, and recorded his attempts, listened to them carefully, erased the lot and began again. He bought the same brand cigarillos and smoked and held them the way Orwell did, even though he found the taste disgusting. He dressed in the same kind of clothes Orwell had and used the same brand after shave.

And then, one day, the doorbell rang.

George Orwell stood, holding an umbrella up against the pouring rain, on his doormat. He smiled his slow smile. 'Good evening, Peter. It so nice to finally meet you.'

Peter forget to return the greeting. He just stood there gawping at the unexpected visitor.

'Can I come in?' asked Orwell and when he stepped over the threshold, Peter's new life had begun.

-.-.-.-.-

Within a year Peter had become one of Orwell's right hand men, and the days of boredom before Orwell seemed a million years away. Not long after Orwell had introduced him to his other trustees, the charismatic man took Peter out on a small robbery. 'I'm not a common thief, Peter,' said Orwell kindly, when Peter raised a questioning eyebrow the first time. 'I take from banks and from rich people, I'm not robbing old people or poor suckers who can hardly make ends meet. I make sure we keep what we need, and the rest goes to charity.'

'Like… like Robin Hood?' Peter carefully asked. Often he felt so dumb next to George, who knew so much and had an answer to everything. Peter's bashful reluctance to speak had apparently won George's sympathy. He now laughed and wrapped his arm around Peter's shoulder.

'Aaaah Peter, the innocence of the young… yes. Alright. Call me a contemporary Robin Hood. Doesn't that have a nice touch to it? Violence is something I don't condone. That's why I plan everything carefully. What say you, Peter? Would you like to taste the sweet touch of gratitude when you give your mother enough to get her settled for the rest of her life? So she doesn't have to work with her rheumatic hands and her ongoing malaise? Wouldn't you be pleased to see that she can afford a better place to live in, so she'd be in less pain?'

Peter needn't think for a long time. 'I'm in. Tell me what to do.'

-.-.-.-

One thing led to another. Apart from Peter, three boys named Steven, Larry and Joey were the ones George held close. They had roughly the same build and the same, shy air as Peter. In fact, they were like Peter: loners who sought a goal. George Orwell had given them that.

Everything was planned ingeniously. George got them exactly the same outfit. The black clothes made Peter feel tall and attractive, the mirror glasses cool and in control. The balaclavas and the glasses made him unrecognisable during a hold-up. George also provided them with fake guns. They were perfect. Impossible to tell them apart from the real stuff. The first time George took such an AKA-copy from a casing, Peter had involuntarily taken a step back. Was that coming from the man who said he didn't approve of violence? But George had laughed. 'It's not a real gun, Peter. Don't worry. Look. It's plastic. A kid's toy. Perfect to get anyone to do what you want them to do.'

'But…'

'Peter, surely you understand that no one will give us anything if we threaten them with a raised finger, right?'

'No, but… guns. I don't like guns.'

'Neither do I. I don't like the dentist. But I still go there, because it's necessary. Peter, my dear boy - these are not real. Don't you forget that. Are you still with us?'

'Sure George, you know I am,' Peter said hesitantly. 'But…'

'But? Come Peter, you can tell me anything,' Orwell said kindly.

'Well…' Peter felt his neck turn hot and red. That's what happened to him when he felt uncomfortable. 'The guns kinda scare me.'

George Orwell laughed fondly and squeezed his shoulder. 'I promise you, Peter. No one will get hurt.' He cocked his head towards the machine gun imitation. 'Be careful not to drop that. It tends to break quite easily, you know. It's just plastic after all.'

That lifted the tension, made Peter relax and laugh out loud. Plastic. Right. George Orwell was right. The guns weren't real. They were only a means to put a little more pressure on the people who had too much money to leave untouched.

And they had been until today.

-.-.-.-

'Well Peter, what do you want to do?' George Orwell shook him from his reverie. Peter's mind was racing though the possibilities. George was wrong, but he couldn't be, could he? He was always so certain about the facts of life. But something in his reasoning didn't sound right. The order was all wrong, for one. Second, Peter had never asked for retaliation. Revenge? Who had asked for revenge? He hadn't! If you played with fire, you were bound to burn your fingers sooner or later. Robbing banks and rich people was not a clean job. Peter knew that. He wouldn't have hesitated to punch and kick himself to safety if it was necessary, but this… this was wrong.

And yet - George was so certain. So convincing too. Why should he let a man live who had shot him? Who would probably have killed him if he hadn't been injured himself? If George hadn't shot him first, Peter would most likely have been on a cold steel table in a morgue this very moment, a brown paper tag attached to his big toe.

George Orwell sipped his liquor, while keeping his calm smile and dark eyes on Peter.

'Peter, I appreciate your doubts. Don't get me wrong, I share them, I do. You know I don't like violence and I certainly don't enjoy doing this. But may I remind you of one thing? If this man lives, he will go to the police. He's of CI5, Peter. It says so on his ID. CI5 is a security organisation. That means he won't stop until he finds us. So, terminate this Mr Bodie, then dispose of the body, so we can get on with our business. Take from the rich and give to the poor.'

_Terminate_? A grand euphemism for murder.

George Orwell smiled again. His eyes were like a deer's, dark brown, warm and soft and his smile was like a duvet on a cold winter's day. It was almost tangible. There was nothing in the world Peter cherished as much as the appreciative smile George reserved for him and him alone.

The smile around Orwell's lips grew even softer. He put both hands on Peter's shoulders, careful not to hurt him, and faced him closely. 'Peter, you know I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think it was necessary. I care for you deeply. You are my brother. No, closer. My son. My own flesh and blood. I would never want you to get hurt. That's why I want you to do it. To protect what we have.'

Peter melted. He loved being on the inside.

'Very well,' he said and nodded. 'Strip him. I'll take him to Downsdale Red Forest.'

-.-.-.-.-

Very, very vaguely, Bodie could feel his shoes being removed. Someone fiddled with the button and the zipper of his trousers. The fabric caressed his legs when it was roughly taken off. There was tugging at his sleeves, his grey leather jacket was removed. His shirt was torn open, he noticed the buttons flying off, the fabric ripping. His arm went up, his watch was slipped from his wrist.

It was raining. Needles and tiny little things were prickling his bare back. Something muddy stuck to his hands.

Through a haze of dizziness and pain in his head that made him sick to the point of throwing up, he realised he was naked.

Naked.

Vulnerable.

Cold.

Alone.

_Ray, where the hell are you?_

_(tbc)_


	8. Downsdale Red Forest

Chapter 8: Downsdale Red Forest

* * *

Bodie was on the run.

He staggered through thick foliage, shrubs, bushes and ferns that reached higher than his hips. Everything was soaking wet, muddy and slippery. The rain drummed down relentlessly, endlessly and icily cold. Bodie didn't have any kind of protection. No clothing, no shoes - nothing. Shivering beyond control he ran on his bare feet and stepped on sharp little things that were all over the boggy soil, while rain and branches vied to torment his naked body first.

He was so terribly dizzy. Every fifty yards he had to stop, hold on to a tree, take deep breaths and then he could not stop himself from retching. Nothing but bile came - there was nothing left in his stomach. He had vomited a zillion times or more. The world was spinning like mad, his head hurt as if an axe was wedged permanently into it and that confused the signals to his arms and his legs and his feet. They didn't do what he wanted them to do. As if they lived a life of their own. He wanted to run forward and suddenly found himself swaying to the right and falling flat on his face over branches that were in his way.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been so cold. It slowed him down even more. His control fading rapidly he fought to get one foot in front of the other. Bodie blinked to get the water from his eyes when he tried to see something through the thick grey curtain of rain that came down and he knew he wouldn't last much longer: he had to find shelter, and then he had to get warm.

What kept him alive he didn't know. The young man had stood before him, the gun held high less than four feet from him. Even though he was hardly able to make out the details, Bodie saw the muzzle of the gun remarkably sharply. Was this it? The end? The inevitable? Had it finally arrived? Was this boy the Grim Reaper who came to collect him at last?

Bodie wanted to shut his eyes and avoid seeing the bullet leave the gun and and force itself into his body and end his life. At the same time, he couldn't close his eyes. Dark blue they'd be and piercing with pride and anger, that's how his opponent would see them. If he was to die, he'd make sure his last lock would be with the eyes of his murderer. So that his killer would never be able to shake that image.

Any second now he expected the gun to fire. Feel the bullet enter his heart or his brain and life fleeing his mortal remains.

_Ray, I'm sorry. I forgot to return your Frank Sinatra album. I wanted to give it back, but… well... you know... I kinda liked it. A lot, actually._

There was no afterlife. There was just the here and now.

_Be careful for Betty Updike. She's mean and bitchy and you don't want to date her._

Maybe there was a God. He'd probably look like George Cowley.

_You can have everything I own, Ray. You're my best friend. Sorry to bail out on you._

It was strange that one could see things so clearly when the end was near.

.-.-.-.

One shot, one sound. An echo, distant.

Bodie braced himself for the impact.

Another shot, another sound and its logical echo, far away.

'Get up,' a trembling voice urged him. 'Mister. Hey. Bodie. Whatever your name is. Get up. Get out of here.'

Huh? This was not the end? But he was sure he'd heard the shots.

'Wake up, goddammit!'

Bodie came to his senses when he noticed the frantic tugging and pulling were not in his mind, but part of reality.

'Go! Get out of here!' snarled the youngster holding the gun. 'Whadda ya waitin' for?' he almost cried out and pulled Bodie to his feet. 'Move! Scram! Get out of here! As far as you can! Go before they get here! GO!'

Bodie did what he was told. In his weakened, delirious state he was unable to really understand what was happening, but he did grasp that death waited a little longer to claim him. Self-preservation got the upper hand and forced him to move, to put one foot in front of the other. He plodded on, stumbled forward, knowing that with every step he took he enlarged the distance.

He had no idea where he was going. In fact, he didn't even know where he was. Not that that was a conscious thought - all his energy was focussed on survival. The trees grew closer together, the shrubberies became thicker and insurmountable and whatever passage there was, had long since vanished. The ground was going up and down, as the terrain became more uneven. On some subconscious level Bodie realised he was moving deeper into the forest. He also knew he couldn't go on much longer like this. He needed shelter. He needed help.

_Ray, if there was ever I moment I needed you..._

He moved on, driven by autopilot. He had to. If he stopped, he would not be able to get up again.

_What the hell is keeping you so long?_

There was no telling how long he had moved, fallen, gotten up again and swayed and staggered on. Big boulders had appeared in the landscape and Bodie stopped for a few seconds, held on to the wet cold stones and took shaky, ragged breaths.

_Move. Come on, go. Don't let them find you. Move. Go. _

He had exactly taken two more steps after that brief pause when the ground opened up and Bodie tumbled down a deep, dark hole.

Without the naked man running for his life, the forrest turned back to the way it had been for countless years. Apart from the rain, nothing disturbed its peace.

-.-.-.-

(tbc)


	9. A keen eye

Chapter 9: A keen eye

* * *

On to number three on the list, Doyle thought with a growing sense of frustration. Anita had been of no help at all, she kept bursting out in tears, unable to produce a single sensible word. Doyle quickly lost his patience, promised her he'd contact her later and left as soon as he could. Mr Hardiman, second on the list, was an eighty year old man who lived in a retirement home and had taken a sleeping pill when he came back from the turbulent morning in the bank. There was no way of waking him up, so Doyle left that address none the wiser.

The next person: a Mrs Rose Perkins, fifty seven years of age, widow and living 24 W. Holden Passage. Doyle parked his car in front of the small house and rested his head on his hands that still held the steering wheel. _Please let this be the breakthrough. Bodie mate - I'm trying as hard I can. I KNOW I'm missing something but I can't see what it is._

His head was throbbing, his leg hurt. Deep down inside he knew that Cowley was right: he should be in bed, sleeping this one off, give himself time to recuperate. But Bodie didn't have time. Neither did Jason Bell. He must admit that his thoughts were with Bodie all the time and that young Jason was only present in the background. They should be equally important of course - they were. But Bodie's safety was the only thing Doyle could think about. Finding him was a personal quest, and yes - according to company rules Doyle was too close for comfort. Cowley might recite the small print but Doyle wouldn't accept being taken off the case. Not now. Not this time. Never, when it concerned Bodie.

_Alright Doyle. Number three. Pull your act together._

He hardly needed to introduce himself to Mrs Perkins. As soon as she opened the door and saw him, she said: 'The young man from the bank.'

'That's right. My name is Ray Doyle, I'm with CI5. I would like to talk to you about this morning's events.'

'You too? I've told you people all I know,' she said.

'Please, it's important. Can I come in?'

'Very well,' she said polity and stepped aside to allow him into her house. 'What a dreadful morning, wasn't it? You tried to stop them but got hit by the debris. How are you? Frankly, I'm surprised you're up and about. Any news on your friend?'

Doyle grimaced. Great. A sensation-loving vulture, just what he needed. It was as if Mrs Perkins read his mind, because she said in a totally different tone: 'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to sound so blunt. That was awfully insensitive of me. Do come in. Would you like some tea? A scone perhaps?'

It was warm in her sitting room, where she obviously was about to have one herself. 'You do look a bit peaky. Maybe a scotch will go down better?'

'No thank you,' Doyle turned down the offer for something stronger, tempting as it sounded. 'Tea'll be just fine.' He was thirsty ever since the explosion, as if the dust still hadn't settled. The warmth in the room did little good for his headache. As she took a cup from a cupboard and poured him tea, she said: 'What kind of questions do you have that have not been answered, Mr Doyle? I have given a full statement, you know.'

'I know, Mrs Perkins. But we haven't got many leads and I'm trying to find out what we're overlooking. My friend and the young clerk are missing,' Doyle said earnestly. Sometimes it helped being open.

'I see. Well, if you think I can be of help…' She handed him the cup.

'Mrs Perkins, could you go over this morning again? Just tell me what comes to mind. Don't leave out anything, even if you think it's not important or relevant.'

Mrs Perkins put her cup down and began. It all sounded exactly like Doyle remembered it: she too awaited her turn, was alarmed by the four barging in and Bodie screaming about a gun, then the shot, the order to be quiet, Bodie waking up, the explosion, the truck and Bodie's and Jason's abduction.

'And that's it,' she said. Doyle was rather surprised by how accurate she had been while talking. He too noticed that he had been listening to her without being distracted at all. She could make people listen to her. 'I'm sorry I can't give you more than that. It was almost impossible to tell them apart because of the way they were dressed. It had been well orchestrated, it must be. I suspect them all to be around twenty years of age, considering their build and the way they moved. The one who spoke who spoke clearly was their leader. I reckon he must be around thirty or so.'

Doyle was surprised. 'Why do you think so?'

'Because the others didn't do anything without his approval. So he must be the leader. It was his stance that caught my eye, Mr Doyle. He was in control, and what he displayed wasn't the attitude that fits a twenty-year old boy.'

'On what do you base that assumption?' Doyle asked. He could not help but admiring her a little - a keen eye for detail she had.

She smiled. 'Mr Doyle, I've been a teacher for over thirty years now. It's sound to say that after all this time I know my customers. Three of them were young, between seventeen and twenty perhaps. The leader was older. Charismatic, despite the similar clothes, the glasses and the ski mask. It was obvious he was used to being obeyed, maybe even admired by others. Did you notice how they turned to him when the police called out from outside?'

Yes, now did she mention it, he remembered he did. She was right. They had all turned to the leader and he had pointed them to the far wall.

'There was something else that struck me, but this is pure speculation, mind you. When your friend dropped that device, the…'

'RT,' Doyle helped her.

'Right, the RT, the robber smashed it, remember? That surprised me. They seemed so keen on their guns – then why not use it? Instead, that young robber hit it with the butt of the machine gun. That struck me as odd. I had expected he would shoot the RT to pieces.'

The machine gun… the butt… that sound… _the sound was wrong…_ Doyle squeezed his eyes shut. What was it?

'Perhaps you think I'm just an old woman ranting, but for a few moments they reminded me of little boys playing cowboys and indians. They were not up to actually using what they carried, no matter how impressive they wanted it to look. Only the leader seemed to fit the circumstances, if you understand what I mean.' She took a bite from her scone and ate in silence, a wrinkle of thought above her eyes.

_What was it… the gun… the butt… that sound… the cracking… the RT breaking… _

No! It wasn't the RT that made that sound. That had been a heavier thud. A more compact sound, with the sharp click of electronics shattering. It was the butt of the gun. It hadn't sounded like a solid grip - it sounded like… like… like it was plastic. Thin, breakable plastic.

'Is something wrong, Mr Doyle?' asked Mrs Perkins.

Boys… Cowboys and indians… no shooting... She had said it exactly right. There could only be one explanation: the guns were fake. That was why Doyle hadn't been able to recognise the type of machine guns! There weren't the real thing!

'No,' he said, his head shooting up. 'No, you've been a great help.' He put the cup down and stood up quickly. If the robbers had been using fake guns, CI5 had a new entry point for the search. 'If there's anything else you remember, will you please contact us immediately? Day or night.'

Mrs Perkins nodded and stood up as well. She saw him to the front door and said goodbye. 'I hope you find your friend soon.'

'Thank you, so do I,' Doyle nodded. He felt a spark of hope and ran to the Capri.

'4.5 to Alpha.'

'This is Alpha. Come in 4.5.' Cowley had been awaiting his call, Doyle could tell from the eagerness in which he responded. He told his boss about his suspicions. 'Sir, there can't be that many manufacturers in the country who produce such a toy.'

'Mmm. You could be right. Maybe it's not even a toy, maybe it's a testing model for size and appearance, or it was made from a genuine mould,' said Cowley. 'I've seen that before. Murphy's come up with something too. He's…'

Tap-tap-tap.

Before Cowley could continue, Doyle startled from knocking on his window, and when he looked up, he saw Mrs Perkins next to his car, hiding under an umbrella. He couldn't blame her: the weather was getting worse by the hour.

'Just a second, sir,' he said and turned the window down.

'Mr Doyle, there was something else. I'm not sure it matters, but since you said anything goes…'

'What is it, Mrs Perkins?'

'Well, just before the robbery happened – you and your friend hadn't come in yet – a man entered the bank but he left without doing anything. I was filling out a form and I happened to looked up. He walked to the counter, met with young Mr Bell and without saying a word he then turned, looked around once and walked out the door again.'

'What do you mean by "_met with"_ Mr Bell? Did they speak? Exchange anything?' A feeling of excitement began to spread over Doyle's body. Was this it? The fake guns, and now something else?

'No, they didn't speak. If they exchanged anything, I'd have to call it a look of understanding. Recognition.'

'Who else was present? Did you see anyone else who noticed?'

'Emm…' she frowned as she recalled the situation. 'Mr Bell senior was there, as usual. But he was helping that older man, so I don't know if he noticed. And that other woman, but she stood at the far end and I don't think she saw him.'

'How long before the robbery was this? One minute? Five? Ten?'

Again she thought before she answered. 'A few minutes, that's as close as I can say it. It can't have been more than five.'

Doyle was thinking fast. There was a gut feeling that came up in some cases, and this one was nestling itself under his skin immediately. This was related to the case, he was certain. 'Mrs Perkins - did you see his face? What did he look like?'

'Let me think, I didn't pay that much attention,' she said. 'Emmm… he was about your length, a bit taller perhaps. His hair was quite long, brown. Slender build.'

'Age?'

'About thirty, thirty-five?'

Tell me he was wearing black clothes, Doyle thought.

'Clothes?'

'I'm not sure. A light grey jacket, perhaps. Dark trousers - blue or dark green or black maybe.' She shook her head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Doyle. I only saw him in a flash. That's all. I didn't see his face and I don't recall any other details. His long hair. I don't normally like that, but it looked well taken care of.'

Doyle nodded. Mrs Perkins didn't realise how much she was helping him.

'It just struck me that he came and went without further ado,' she said before she nodded him goodbye for the second time and then quickly went back inside.

Yes, Doyle thought grimly, you're right Mrs Perkins. That is odd. And I am sure that I'll find answers down that road.

* * *

(tbc)


	10. Meanwhile

Chapter 10: Meanwhile...

* * *

The snap that announced his ankle breaking, sounded sickening but it was nothing compared to the animalistic cry that escaped Bodie's lips. He gasped for air, let out a howl of pain and saw to his horror the ankle bone sticking out the filthy flesh. He wanted to grab his ankle, he fell back, he wanted to curl up, get warm and shut out the world, but he couldn't. Writhing in pain he tried to stay still but he couldn't. It was impossible. His heart rate went sky high, pain pushing every nerve in his body to the limit. Flashes from his past came back very vividly: the pain from the knife that had been stuck between his ribs when he and Doyle worked on a racism case. The fever-induced nightmares that had scared him beyond belief. That had been a close call, but despite his exhaustion Bodie was well aware that this was much, much worse. No one knew he was here. He had no way of contacting anyone. Doyle was looking for him as would be all of CI5, he knew, but chances of them finding him in time were slim.

To say the least.

Completely drawn Bodie fell back on the cold, wet dirt. He had to stay as still as possible. He shouldn't move. Even the slightest twitch send more stars to his vision and pushed bile to his throat. Despite the cold, he was breaking out in sweat. God - it hurt. It hurt! It was difficult to get his breathing under control - he should breathe calmly. In… Out… In… Out… If he concentrated on his breath, he might just…

_Ray… please…_

_Make it stop…_

Bodie's confined space turned into sucking pool of despair, razor-sharp pain, uncontrollable shivering and biting cold.

_Help me…_

Like quicksand it was drawing him in deeper and deeper. He struggled to keep his head above the surface, to not give in to the choking feeling, to fight the hands that inevitably pulled him further and further down into the darkness.

_Ray…_

_ay…_

…

* * *

(tbc)


	11. For whom the Bell tolls

Chapter 11: For whom the Bell tolls

* * *

Doyle raced through London as fast as he could - he wasn't sure what made more rounds per minute: the roaring engine or his heartbeat. He knew where Cedric Bell and his family lived, and while he drove there, he knew Cowley was pulling all possible strings to find out more about the newly discovered information.

Wheels leaving rubber on the tarmac, Doyle came to an abrupt halt and jumped out of the Capri. Ignoring the lightheadedness and the annoying heat in his leg, he ran through the small fence, showed his ID to the police man who stood guard near the door and rang the bell. After half a minute the door went slightly ajar, a suspicious face looking through the small opening. The chain that held the door in place rattled slightly. 'Constable? Who's there?'

The police man opened his mouth but Doyle cut him short before he could say one word. 'It's me, Mr Bell, Ray Doyle. I need to speak to you. Now.'

Cedric Bell opened the door. 'Mr Doyle! Any news?'

'We have a lead, but I need to speak to you,' Doyle said while pushing Bell inside and following him. He nearly sagged through one knee. Dammit. He could feel the heat of the bruise through his jeans. Not now. There was no time for this nonsense. A bruise - that's what it was. Period.

'Are you alright?' Bell said a bit uneasily, reaching out to support him, but Doyle waved it off.

'It's nothing. Mr Bell - I need to know: prior to the robbery a man came in. Just before those men in black stormed in, a man walked over to the counter, sought contact with Jason and then turned and left. He's been seen by one your customers.'

Bell frowned in deep thought. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Sir, you must have seen him. A man who headed straight for Jason. He most likely didn't talk to your son, but there was a moment of contact between them. Only for a few seconds. Think, Mr Bell. Brown hair, shoulder long, between thirty and thirty five, light grey jacket, dark trousers. Did you see anyone matching that description?'

Doyle counted the seconds. Cedric Bell was about to say no, he could see it in his face. 'Think, Mr Bell! For crying out loud - the life of your son and my colleague may depend on it! Picture yourself back to this morning's events, just before all hell broke loose. A man, my height and my age, wearing a light coloured jacket, hair up to here...' He pointed it out the way Mrs Perkins had done for him. 'The witness says she saw them exchange a look of understanding with Jason. Perhaps a teacher, a friend of his, a business associate?'

'Wait a minute…' The message began to strike home. 'Yes… Now that I think about it… Err … come on… what's his name… Indeed, I think Jason has a friend who fits that description. Yes… yes, he came in. That's right. He came in, but I was helping Mr Hardiman, so I didn't pay much attention.'

'What's his name?' Doyle almost pulled the words from his lips.

'George… George Something. Em…' Confused, Bell shook his head. 'Come on, what's his name again… something familiar.'

'Where does your son know him from?'

Bell shook his head. 'I'm sorry, I don't know. Orwell! That's it. George Orwell.'

All hope fled Doyle like gas from a punctured balloon. George Orwell. George bloody Orwell, for god's sake! George Orwell was an author!

Bell had heard his own words and shook his head, slightly embarrassed. 'No, I'm wrong. That can't be right, can it?'

'Mr Bell…' Doyle tried to keep the impatience from his voice. 'Please. Think again. Has he ever been here? Have you ever spoken to him?'

'No.' Again Bell shook his head. 'But my wife might have. Wait a minute, Mr Doyle.' He left Doyle standing and went to fetch his wife, who followed suit.

'Is there any news on Jason?' she said, very composed, although it was evident she must be under a lot of stress. Red spots spread over her neck and the lower half of her face, a sign of the nerve-racking tension she was going through.

'Not yet,' said Doyle curtly. 'Ma'am, I need to know - your husband remembers a friend of Jason's. A George. Something. With long hair.'

'Oh yes, of course. George Orwell. Very well educated, rather handsome too,' Mrs Bell said immediately. 'Funny name, isn't it? Would you name your son George if your last name was Orwell? You wouldn't, now would you?'

'So you're sure? That's his real name?' Doyle couldn't believe his ears, but Mrs Bell was nodding, very convinced.

'Certainly.'

'Where did Jason and he meet?' Doyle pushed on, not giving either one of them a chance to come up with their own questions.

'I think in a social club,' Mrs Bell said after a moment's thought. 'I've only met him once, when he came in to pick up Jason for a game of cricket. I was just having tea, and he joined me for a cup. Truly a fine young man. A bit older than Jason, but of good influence. Clearly from a family of means, not unlike ourselves.'

'Do you know what cricket game? A local club? A student or society group? A national match?'

Mrs Bell pouted her lip in thought. 'No, I can't say, I don't know.'

'Is there anything else you can tell me about this man? Did he come by car? Has he told you about his work or where he came from?' Doyle looked at her pleadingly. 'Please madam, anything would be helpful. Anything at all.'

'I'm not sure if it's of any help, but he said his family had a home in the country.'

'Where in the country?'

Mrs Bell shook her head. 'I don't remember know for sure, the place had such a strange name. Rinnin… Rimmeigh… Rinten… I don't know, I'm sorry.'

Yeah, so am I, Doyle thought grimly. In Bell's office the telephone rang and Mr Bell excused himself and left his wife and Doyle to answer the call.

'Alright, thank you,' he said and turned for the door. 'If you think of anything else, please contact us.'

'Mr Doyle…' Mrs Bell stopped him before he could leave.

'Yes?'

'It will be alright, won't it? You and your lot will find my son, right?'

Doyle nodded curtly and gave her a little smile. 'I have to go.'

-.-.-.-

Through the rain he quickly crossed the street, stumbled as once again his left leg gave way and cursing below his breath he almost dove inside the Capri. He shook the raindrops from his curly hair like a dog. Bloody soddin' English weather! He took the RT from his pocket and contacted Cowley, while the rain rattled down on the car.

'Good, 4.5, very good,' Cowley said, obviously pleased with the new information. 'Where are you?'

'In my car.' Doyle had to speak up to make himself heard.

'Come back to HQ. We'll put all information together and cross-reference it with what you've come up with. Murphy has…'

Tap-tap-tap.

Talk about a déjà-vu! This time Cedric Bell stood next to his car under an umbrella and tapped on his window.

'Just a moment, sir,' Doyle said and turned it down. 'Mr Bell?'

'Mr Doyle! Great news. Jason just rang. He's alive and he's alright.'

'What?' Doyle recalled the telephone ringing. That had been Jason?

'He called from a gas station. Apparently they've released him!' Bell beamed. 'My wife and I are going to pick him up. He's alright!'

'I'm coming with you,' Doyle said and slammed the car in reverse. 'There should be one of us present.'

A dark blue Jaguar, driven by a chauffeur, appeared in front of the Bell estate, and Cedric Bell hurried back and joined his wife, who already sat waiting impatiently in the back seat.

Doyle, who had left the line open, said to Cowley: 'Did you hear that, sir? Jason Bell is back, apparently he's been set free by the kidnappers. I'm going with them.'

'Anything on Bodie?' asked Cowley.

'No sir.' Doyle steered his car precisely behind the Jaguar. 'Nothing.'

(tbc)


	12. No winners

Chapter 12: No winners

* * *

'Peter, you haven't said a word the last hour,' George Orwell said and kindly put his hand on the Peter's shoulder. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Peter said a little too quickly.

'Come on Peter, I know you better than that. And you know I do. What is it? Tell me.'

Peter shook his head. 'It's nothing. Really. It's just… everything that's happened. It was a… a strange day.'

'Yes…' George nodded slowly. 'It was an eventful day indeed.'

Peter wasn't sure if he wanted to shake George's hand from his shoulder or grab it and hold it. Never before had he felt so torn between two worlds. He hadn't been able to shoot the man as George had asked him. George's theory of 'what goes round must come round' felt so terribly, terribly wrong. It went against everything Peter knew to be right. It was George who had fired and injured that man, something which Peter never thought would happen for real. The fact that George's gun wasn't a fake and that he had used it to bring a man down, had upset Peter more than he was willing to admit. He couldn't shake the image of the vicious head injury on the chalk-white man.

But what was even more distressing was George's insistence on revenge. That he, Peter, should be the one to do it. George brought it as if it was a great honour and a deed of trust, but why didn't it feel that way to Peter? He had been so sorry for that man, Bodie. He was in a poor state when the others had dragged him into the forest. Peter had only chosen the forest to stall the inevitable and it took him all his guts to say to George and the others he wanted to be left alone with Bodie. 'No need for all of you to be witnesses,' he had said bravely. George, who had been watching while his trustees had carried Bodie, had nodded appreciatively and taken the others back to the truck. Before he left, he had given Peter the gun and told him he wouldn't be disturbed. 'Take the time you need, but don't hesitate, Peter. Make me proud.'

He wanted to, there was nothing in the world he wanted more than making George proud of him.

But when it came down to it, Peter couldn't. He just couldn't pull the trigger. The real gun was lot heavier than the fakes ones he had been holding up till now, and with striking clarity he understood what he was about to do. He was going to commit murder. In cold blood.

He couldn't.

Bodie had looked pitiful to say the least. George had him stripped him naked to slow down the process of identification, he had said. It had given Peter an embarrassed, uneasy feeling, to see the poor bugger lying naked on the ground. It was cold and had started raining. The nasty wound to his head looked even worse than it had done a few hours ago. How could Bodie possibly be of any threat to them in this state? Couldn't they just leave him here?

Peter had racked his brains. What could he do? He couldn't kill a man. Never. But if he didn't, he couldn't go back either. George would know. He couldn't come back and say: sorry, couldn't do it. George would be furious with him, maybe… maybe tell the others to finish the job and… and… and hurt Peter too.

There was only one possible way out. He would try to wake up Bodie and get him to go deeper into the forest. With a little luck he would get away far enough and then it was no longer Peter's responsibility. He would probably not make it very far, and then maybe just… just… die without a single gunshot being fired.

He looked around before he pointed the gun and then fired two shots in the deep moss, four feet from Bodie's head. The backfire was harder than he had expected. The echo of the shots rolled around like a premonition of a thunderstorm closing in. His hands were shaking when he kneeled next to Bodie.

'Bodie... hey Mr Bodie... wake up! For Christ's sake - wake up!'

.-.-.-.

That was a few hours ago. He had seen Bodie taking off, stumbling and falling. There was no doubt in his mind that he wouldn't get far, but at least he'd be a little further away from George and a certain death.

Peter had difficulty reconciliating with the events and George noticed that. Of course. He always did. He read Peter like a book.

'Do not break your head over it, Peter, my dear friend. It is I who has the difficult task of bearing this weight on my shoulders. I have you given an order like a captain, and you are but the soldier, carrying out that order. No, don't feel sorry for me, I will take it upon me as I should. So don't you worry. You needn't trouble yourself with it. In a battle, the greatest sacrifices are made by the men on top. They have to take the decisions. Are soldiers blamed for carrying out orders? Are they? No. Their superiors are. They have to sleep knowing their instructions can and will cause great suffering.'

'George, I did what you asked of me,' Peter said and hoped it wouldn't show he was lying, 'b-b-but I hated it. It felt wrong.'

'No, my dear boy. I explained it to you, didn't I? It needed to be done, it was the natural order of things.'

Peter fell silent. Was George right? He seemed so sure. George smiled. 'Come Peter. We have prevailed, we have come out as the winners. We have done well for ourselves today. There will be a lot to give to the poor.' He gestured to the table where a pile of money was waiting to be sorted and counted.

The colour of the banknotes had the same bleak tinge that Peter had witnessed in Bodie's face. The shivering, cold, helpless man he was set out to kill. The unsteady steps he took when he had shaken off Peter's arm and fled into the forest.

Peter's stomach couldn't bear it any longer. 'I'm sorry, I… toilet…!' He ran off to the bathroom and threw up until there was nothing but bile left.

He was sick with everything. Winners?

_There are no winners, you bloody idiot._

(tbc)


	13. What happened to Jason

Chapter 13: What happened to Jason

* * *

Jason sat in a small café near the gas station, holding a cup of tea between both hands and he jumped up when his parents came in. Mrs Bell embraced her son while uttering muffled cries and Mr Bell hugged him shortly and then kept him at arm's length to see if he was unharmed.

Doyle waited the appropriate time for the family to reunite and then cut in.

'I'm sorry I have to interrupt and get down to business so bluntly. My name is Doyle, I'm with CI5,' said Doyle, showing his ID. 'Are you alright? Do you need medical care in any way?'

'No sir,' said Jason, his blue eyes bright, his blond hair shiny. 'I'm fine.' He did look fine, that was certain.

'Can you tell me what happened?'

Jason blinked his blue eyes twice and said. 'We've been driving for a while and then they pulled over, let me out of the truck and said that I was free to go.'

'I don't understand,' said Doyle puzzled. 'You've been away since nine this morning, they drove a while and threw you out around here, and it has taken you over six hours to contact your parents?'

Jason shook his head. 'No, I was talking about my release. First I was blindfolded and tied up. We drove for a long time, then we stopped and I didn't hear anything for a while. Perhaps they were thinking of what to do with me. And the other man.'

_The other man. _Bodie. 'Have you seen him?' Doyle scrutinised him. The boy was didn't look all too shaken for someone who had just been kidnapped and released. There was something else, it was staring him in the face, but he didn't see it yet.

'He was in the back of the truck. After the men came back, they started the truck and again, we drove for some time and then they took off my blindfold. They dropped me off in a field and they said I had to walk for three miles and there'd be a gas station here,' the blond young man went on.

'Did you hear them talking?' asked Doyle.

Jason nodded. 'Yes. A little. Not much.'

'What did they talk about?'

'I don't know. I couldn't make out what they were saying.'

'Where was Bodie?'

'In the back, on the floor of the truck,' answered Jason.

Doyle suddenly had an epiphany. It was so clear that he didn't understand he hadn't seen it earlier. 'Next to you?'

A flash of confusion was visible. 'Err… yes of course. Next to me.'

'Was he blindfolded too?'

'No. He was unconscious.'

'How do you know? You were blindfolded. You can't have seen that.'

Jason coloured a little bit pinkish. 'He was out of it when they dragged us into the truck. I saw it then.'

'Right,' said Doyle. 'I understand, of course. You were tied up, you said. Hands in front or behind your back?'

'Behind my back,' Jason said, again slightly confused by the questions that were fired upon him. 'Yes, behind.'

'And Bodie?'

'I don't know. I didn't see him, remember?'

'Then if you didn't see him, how do you know it was him on the floor next to you?'

Jason shrugged. 'I _guess_ it was him, alright? Mother, father - what's with all the questions?'

'How far away did they drop you off?' Doyle pushed on.

'I don't know exactly, I didn't…'

'How long have you been walking? Ten minutes? An hour?' Doyle didn't give him much time to think about an answer. Mr Bell didn't appreciate Doyle's questions, but one flick of the agent's slender hand kept him at bay.

'I'm not sure. Not an hour. Half an hour - forty five minutes maybe. I don't know exactly!' said Jason, obviously overwhelmed by the barrage of question.

'Did you call your family straight away when you came in here?'

Jason's look went to the station owner who eyed the foursome curiously from behind his counter. 'Yes. I came in and asked him if I could make a telephone call.'

'Did George drive the truck?' Doyle played his trump.

'George?'

'Orwell. Your friend. The one with the long hair. What did he say when you pulled it off?'

Jason turned scarlet. 'What?'

'Mr Doyle…' began Bell but Doyle interrupted him with another question for Jason.

'Tell me Jason - why on earth would anyone come into a bank and do nothing if it wasn't to signal or check with an accomplice behind the counter that all was to go ahead as planned?'

'But…'

'Mr Doyle!' Bell said louder but one hard look from Doyle made him shut up. The CI5-man talked faster and louder, not taking his eyes of Jason for a second.

'A man fitting the description of your friend George Orwell? And why would he take two hostages and release the one who was most likely to get him the biggest ransom money? Why wouldn't he drop the injured man somewhere? After all, the injured man would only slow him down. Tell me, Jason. How come you look like you've been on a summer picnic? If you have been walking for half an hour in this godforsaken weather, you would have been soaked to the bone. You weren't released in a field somewhere. George Orwell dropped you off just around the corner, so the people here wouldn't see it, but you needn't walk very far. You certainly haven't crossed wet muddy fields for half an hour!'

Doyle grabbed Jason by his wrists and turned them upwards. No marks whatsoever of ropes. He hadn't been tied up, unless it had been with satin ribbons.

'You cocky little bastard. You're in on this. You were from the start. Where is Bodie? Tell me. TELL ME GODDAMMIT!'

Doyle knew it with every fibre in his body - when Jason had said that Bodie was in the back of the truck. It had been precisely the nail to Jason's coffin, so to speak. If he had said that Bodie and he had been in the back together, it would have made sense.

'Where is he? Where is Bodie? Where can I find George Orwell?'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' cried Jason, but he looked a whole lot less sure of himself.

Doyle took his RT from his pocket. '4.5 to Alpha-1. I have a suspect. Jason Bell is an accomplice. Send backup over here right away.' He saw Mrs Bell place a hand over her mouth and Bell looking at him incredulously. Jason stuttered: 'That's a lie! I don't know what you're talking about.'

Doyle grabbed him by his shirt. 'Tell me now. NOW! Where do I find him? George Orwell? What has he done to Bodie? Tell me or I'll rip your heart out. I need to find my partner. Unless you spill your guts right here and right now, I suggest your parents start looking for a disabled parking space.'

'I don't know what…' Jason tried one last time.

'He was "in the back" of the truck?' snarled Doyle. 'That can only mean that you were somewhere else. Probably comfortable, sitting with your feet up and thinking about all that money. I see it clearly now. You and Georgie set it up. You as an insider, being able to fill George in on all the details. Maybe even place a charge of explosives near the outside wall, since you got full access anyway? How much do you get from this? Huh?'

Doyle was so angry that he couldn't keep himself in check and twisted the fabric of Jason's shirt so tightly, that the young man began to gurgle.

'Tell me…'

Jason's eyes grew large with distress. 'No.'

'Now! NOW!'

'Mr Doyle! Mr Doyle!' Bell pulled his arm.

'Tell me!'

Jason struggled.

'Tell me! NOW!'

At last, Jason caved in. 'Ro… ro… ro… Rowanberry House, Regedinxton, near Downsdale Red Forest,' he stammered. 'I didn't know.' He lost his composure completely and sobbed, now that it was out. 'I didn't know. I didn't know he had a real gun. I didn't know… I didn't know...'

Doyle let him go, panting slightly with ill-restrained anger.

Regedinxton. The place with the funny name.

(tbc)


	14. Set out to kill

Chapter 14. Set out to kill

* * *

Doyle sat next to Cowley in the helicopter. Now that he couldn't do anything else but sit and wait while the helicopter covered the distance between London and Regedinxton, he relaxed a little. He wasn't feeling well. At all. Apart from the gut-wrenching worry about Bodie, his head swam and his leg hurt like hell.

'I've been meaning to tell you that Murphy has come up with something too,' Cowley said in the mike of his headphones. The noise of the helicopter and the bad weather made it hard to hear and the older man had to speak loudly. 'The license plate of the truck? There was no match at first, but Murphy then looked for plates that had 478 instead of 473, which was the initial starting point. He reckoned that if someone would want to change a plate, it'd be easiest to take the 3 and turn it into an 8. Murphy was right.'

'Good man,' Doyle said, adjusting the headphones a little.

'Aye, and he found the owner, a Mr Brian Beck from Fern Valley, who told Murphy he had given it to a charity foundation. But it was still registered to Beck.'

'Charity?'

'Yes. According to Mr Beck this foundation collects old furniture, fixes it up and then gives it away to people who haven't got the funds to buy new. Beck is an old man who's unable to drive himself, so he thought it was a fine cause. And guess who owns the charity foundation?'

'George Orwell?' Doyle suggested.

'Right - George Orwell,' Cowley confirmed with a nod.

'So Orwell is the owner of a charity club?' Doyle had difficulty keeping up with Cowley. _I must be more tired than I think_, he thought wearily and rubbed his stinging eyes. He shifted in the seat to release some of the pressure on his leg. It was killing him, he could feel the tension on the heated flesh. Hidden under the fabric of his jeans his leg was badly swollen, he knew.

'No, there is no charity foundation. George Orwell however, is rich. Very rich.'

'Rich as in…?'

'Six million pounds sterling rich enough for you?'

Doyle let out a whistle. 'Six million?'

'A lot of money, aye.'

'Never knew charity was that profitable,' Doyle mumbled.

Cowley continued, not hearing Doyle's comment. 'I just got the information. Your discoveries were exactly what we needed. I've already alerted the police in Fern Valley. That's close to Rowanberry House in Regedinxton. There's a team on the way too. We're going to get Orwell and we're going to find Bodie.'

The helicopter swayed a little in the wind. It was difficult to see anything outside. The rain was still coming down hard and the wind swept it in every direction. The world below them looked grey and gloomy. Was Bodie out there? Were they keeping him locked up inside Rowanberry House? How was he doing?

'Yes,' Doyle said and shuddered. 'We are.'

Cowley looked at his operative a little longer than necessary. 'When this is over you are going to see a doctor. That's an order.'

Doyle's quiet resolve was more of an answer than anything he would have said in normal circumstances.

-.-.-.-

The helicopter landed on a strip of land behind Rowanberry House. It was large estate, with a nineteenth century house built on the highest hill and overlooking the downs. Mrs Orwell had not seen George for a while but "expected him home for dinner".

To Mrs Orwell's utter distaste Cowley instructed the policemen to search the house, top to bottom. There was no sign of Bodie anywhere. 'For crying out loud! Where is he?' Doyle almost screamed as the last room left him none the wiser. Mrs Orwell shook her head, looking both shocked as well as childishly indignant. 'George would never do anything wrong. He is not into that… that kind of thing. Kidnapping? I daresay, you…'

Cowley interrupted her. 'Excuse me Mrs Orwell. I have the time nor intention to discuss your son's merits. There's a life a stake, so unless you have something to contribute, I suggest you take a step aside.'

Mrs Orwell looked at him incredulously. It was obvious she wasn't used to be spoken to like that, but she squeezed her lips tight and literally stepped out of his way.

'What do we do, sir?' Doyle said, tension rising.

That was when Murphy came in. He was in the company of a boy in his late teens. 'Sir, - hi Ray - this young man insists on speaking to you.'

In a second Doyle took in what he saw. Seventeen, maybe eighteen years old. About his height. Slim. Dark, sleek hair, combed backwards, long in the neck. Narrow face, green eyes, quite like his own. Pale complexion. Traces of grass and mud covered his black trousers. He was biting his lower lip. It was obvious he was nervous as hell.

Murphy gestured to Cowley and said to the boy: 'This is Mr Cowley. He's the big boss.'

'Yes?' Cowley eyed the boy impatiently. He had little time for divertissements. 'What is it?'

'You are looking for that m-m-man, right? B-b-b-bodie?'

'What?' Heads shot up at the same time. Even Murphy, who had been questioning the boy before getting him to Cowley, hadn't seen that one coming. Apparently the young man had kept this information to himself until he could speak to the man at the top.

Doyle stepped closer. 'What do you know about Bodie?'

'You have to p-p-p-promise me p-p-p-p-protection,' stuttered the young man.

'The hell we don't!' snarled Doyle.

'Then I c-c-c-can't help you,' the boy said.

'You tell me what you know and I might just let you live,' threatened Doyle but Cowley hushed him.

'What is it you know, son?' he asked kindly. It was clear that the young man was terrified. He was shaking like a leaf but nevertheless he stubbornly shook his head. 'N-n-n-no. You m-m-m-must promise m-m-m-me p-p-p-protection! I'm not saying uh-uh-until you p-p-p-p..'

The stuttering got worse and Cowley put his hand up. 'Calm down, son. You don't have to be scared, you have my guarantee I will do whatever I can to help you.'

The boy swallowed, at least five times in a row. He rapidly blinked his eyes and seemed to think about going for it, or getting the hell out of there. Cowley gestured to Mrs Orwell, who stood stiffly in the corner of the room and followed everything with a sour look. 'Please Mrs Orwell, will you get this young man some tea? And something to eat too. He looks like could use it.'

With an equally sour look she nodded curtly and left the room. The kind, fatherly way in which Cowley took charge was exactly what Peter needed, because he visibly relaxed a little and said: 'M-m-my name is Peter Mulligan and I was set out to kill a man…'

(tbc)


	15. Brief encounter

Chapter 15: Brief encounter

* * *

'Bodie! Bodie!'

'Booo-dieee!'

'Bodie!'

Everyone was calling out the same name over and over again - CI5 personnel, local police, helpful villagers and hastily drummed up National Forest Service employees. Peter Mulligan had led them as far as he had been with Bodie, and where he had watched him taking off. Doyle didn't know if he wanted to hug him or throttle him. If Peter's conscience hadn't been what it was, Bodie would be dead for certain. However, there was a chance that Bodie was out there and alive. Doyle knew how strong and inventive his best friend was. He had been in the jungle before, on his own, and he knew what to do, how and where to find shelter. But Mulligan had told him that he had been stripped and that he wasn't looking good, that he had been unconscious almost the entire time and that it taken Peter a lot of effort to wake him up. He had a serious concussion at least, perhaps even a skull fracture. Plus he had been out in the rain and the wind unprotected, no clothes on… Doyle shivered at the thought of it.

Every few yards the rescue party stopped, searched the ground, bushes, branches and foliage for traces, held quiet to hear an answer and then advanced further. Doyle was secretly glad with the pauses. The green of the forest melted together in an unclear blot on his retina. If only his legs carried him a little better… The heat in his left leg was getting unbearable and he could hardly get one foot in front of the other without buckling.

_Don't whine, Ray. Keep going. Bodie's here somewhere and he needs you._

Murphy was keeping close to him. He approached Doyle when there was another still moment and whispered: 'Ray - you don't look so good. Do you want to sit down?'

Yes, that's what he wanted. 'No, it's nothing, Murph. I'm just tired. This morning's blast is still ringing in my ears,' he said dismissively. 'We need to find Bodie.'

'You're limping. What's wrong with you leg?'

'It's nothing, I'm okay, Murph. Come on, we're moving again,' Doyle said and stepped forwards. He could barely hold his balance when the weight was on his left leg. Ten more steps left him panting with dizziness, sweat pouring down his face.

'Sit down Ray, before you fall down,' Murphy said and this time his voice was strict. 'Keep your RT at hand. As soon as we find him, you'll be the first to know.'

'Murphy…'

'Ray, I'm serious. You shouldn't be here. When we find Bodie, we don't need you to pass out. You stay here and rest.' Murphy looked at him with his familiar friendly look and put his hand on Doyle's shoulder. 'Sit, Ray,' he repeated. 'I promise we will find him. You can share a hospital room together - how does that sound?'

Doyle wanted to object but stars and worrying dark spots where clouding his vision. He knew Murphy was right. It was a miracle in itself that Cowley hadn't forbidden him to come along for he knew the boss had him taped.

'Awful,' he said with a wry grin. 'He snores like a chainsaw.'

Murphy smiled. He knew he'd won this one. When Doyle had sat down on a fallen elm, his leg stretched out in front of him, he was satisfied. 'You'll be alright like this?'

'Yes doctor. Now go.'

A last nod and Murphy followed the rest. Doyle listened as their voices distanced themselves further and further away from him. He rested his head against the tree's branches and sighed deeply, his eyes closed. What a let-down. His friend was in need and he couldn't even help. He definitely needed a doctor. He knew it - the heat in his leg predicted little good and he was concussed too, probably. Which was no wonder considering the blow to his head this morning. This morning? A million years seemed to have passed since Bodie came to pick him up.

The weather finally cleared up a little. It had stopped raining when the helicopter had landed and a watery sun began to show itself carefully. All around Doyle the forest was glistening and dripping. Doyle hadn't often been alone in big forest like this. As he sat, his eyes closed, tired and dizzy, he listened to the world around him. Continuous dripping of raindrops, rolling down from leaves and branches. Little animals popping out from their hiding places and scurrying around in the foliage. Watery streams formed alliances with crossing ones and ran downhill. Birds sang, a little hesitant at first but then happier, pleased to see that the torrent had ended. A fly was buzzing near his ear. The voices had trailed off long ago and he was all alone with just his thoughts. It wasn't as quiet as he thought it would be. But it was peaceful, and the fresh air that was so typical after heavy rain made it not a bad place to be right now.

If…

If only Bodie would be here, it would be perfect. Then again - with Bodie he was certain there would be little silence. They'd joked around and notice nature but not _really_ notice it, not the way he did it now.

He knew he was dozing off. _Fight it, Ray. Come on! Bodie is out here somewhere and you want to take a nap? Come on!_

There was going to be NO sleeping. Not now, not here. Struggling against the upcoming sleep, he opened his eyes again.

Wow…

Less than twelve yards from him a deer and her child nibbled from the lush, green grass at their feet. Doyle held his breath. Now there was a sight for sore eyes! The little one was light brown with white flecks over its back, the mother was a darker colour brown with a healthy shine. Even from where he sat Doyle could see her long dark eyelashes surrounding her huge, deep brown eyes. The calm elegance emanating from the deer was stunning. He sat dead still not to startle them and enjoyed the breathtaking beauty of the two. The child drank its mother's milk - an act so common, yet so intimate that Doyle felt he witnessed one of nature's most beautiful scenes, especially laid out for him by some higher force.

Suddenly their heads went up simultaneously and looked in his direction but beyond him. Just for second they seemed to freeze and then, as if stung by a bee, the jumped and ran away.

The hairs in Doyle's neck instantly stood on end. All of a sudden he was on full alert, fatigue miraculously gone. He got up and turned to face what had alerted the deer. He couldn't hear what they had picked up, and he might be hoping against all odds but…

He picked up a stick from the ground and, using it to support himself, he hobbled further. Not in the direction the rescue party had gone but almost at a right angle to it. They were going uphill - he was going in eastern direction.

Carefully putting one foot in front of the other he moved on. It can't have been far, the sound or the smell or whatever it was that had alerted the animals. He was so sure that they had reacted to the presence of something other than his own that he stubbornly refused to stay put. Up and down the ground went. Up and down Doyle followed.

'Bodie!' He shouted. 'Bodie!'

And then, just as he had climbed another small slope and he gritted his teeth to make the downwards move again, he saw him.

'Bodie!'

(tbc)


	16. Orwellian affairs

Chapter 16: Orwellian affairs

* * *

It hadn't taken Doyle more than thirty seconds to get down into the pit that was Bodie's prison. He sank to the ground, ignoring his leg and spinning head. 'Bodie! Bodie! It's me, Ray!'

His heart sank. His friend was bad. Really bad. A pulse. Was there a pulse? His fingers trembled when he searched for the beat in Bodie's neck.

Yes.

Yes!

It was weak and erratic, but it was there. He put his gun on the ground, yanked off his coat and covered Bodie with it. His friend was stone cold, dirty, wet and one quick look told Doyle that Bodie's ankle was seriously fractured. Seeing the bone stick out through the flesh made him queasy to say the least. 'Bodie, it's alright mate. I'm right here. They're all here.' He yanked the RT from the pocket of his jacket. '4.5 to Alpha. I've got him, sir! I repeat, I found Bodie. He's alive but needs medical attention as soon as possible!'

A click and then: 'Good man, Doyle! Good man!'

Not taking his eyes off of Bodie, Doyle described how the two of them could be found and then turned his attention to his friend again. He was almost afraid to touch him for fear of hurting him. 'Bodie, come on sunshine. Just a few more minutes and you'll be out of here.' He rubbed Bodie's arms to get his blood circulation running again. His partner was too cold, far too cold. His face was ashen, lips colourless with a hint of blue and deep rings under his eyes were quiet proof of his suffering. The head injury was looking bad too. The torn flesh and surrounding skin were red and glowing ominously, unmistakable signs of an infection. When he took Bodie's hand, he got no response. No soft squeeze, no twitch to show that Bodie was aware of his presence.

Dread filled Doyle. 'Bodie, come on, talk to me,' he whispered, his throat dry with emotion. He cupped Bodie's cold face with his warm hands, wanting nothing more than warm him up, see those eyelids flutter and then lock with the deep blue that was so familiar. He was not used to being in these circumstances. Often it had been the other way round. He couldn't recall how many times he himself had been in trouble, in truly bad situations with very little time left, and then Bodie would always show up and come to the rescue. Always. He didn't know anyone else who was as protective as Bodie. Once Bodie's heart was won over, the dark-haired man went for it all the way. No matter if it was Doyle or Cowley, a CI5-colleague like Charlie or Murphy or Jax, or in the past Marikka and even Susan, who hadn't answered his labour of love - Bodie would walk to hell and back for them. If Macklin hadn't been following Cowley's orders in his training sessions, Bodie would have made sure the huge blond trainer would never lay a finger on Doyle again. That was Bodie through and through. Protective like the eldest son looking after his kid brother.

Now the tables had turned 180 degrees. Frankly, Doyle could hardly cope with the feelings that were raging inside. He had found Bodie, now what? How could he offer the same kind of protection Bodie always conjured up so instantly and in a way that looked like it was second nature?

Quickly he scanned the hole. Five, six feet in diameter. The bottom was littered with dirt, rocks, sand, rotting leaves, waste from the trees and animal droppings. It wasn't big and not even very deep - six, seven feet perhaps, but there was no way Bodie would have been able to crawl out with that leg of his. The walls had no pointy rocks to hold on to or stand on, just some tree roots, moss and decaying remains. Doyle wouldn't be able to get him out either, not on his own. Bodie needed a stretcher. And warmth. My god, he was so cold.

There was one thing Doyle could do, however. He could try and get his friend warmer, even it was only a little. 'Hey Bodie, I'm going to sit behind you and be your support, okay? You're too cold mate, you need warming up. I'll be your pillow and electric blanket at the same time. How's that? Now, before you start nagging – I _know_ you don't like them, but you need to get warm. You're colder than an icicle.'

While talking Doyle sat next to him and with ultimate care he lifted Bodie's upper body and moved so, that Bodie now rested against his chest and belly. Memories of Doyle's childhood popped to mind: his sister sitting with him like this, pretending they were in a train together, his father making choo-choo sounds and whistling, brother and sister shaking left and right as if they went through sharp turns in the imaginary track. His mother laughing. Happier days.

Doyle wrapped his arms around Bodie. His hair, sticky and wet, touched Doyle's chin. He strained himself to listen to Bodie's breath, alert for changes. 'Hold on, mate,' he whispered, his lips an inch from the cold head that rested against his chest.

His RT cracked. '4.5. Come in, 4.5.'

'This is 4.5.'

'4.5, this is Alpha. Can you give us a signal so we can see you?'

Doyle looked around. There was nothing he could signal with. Fire a gunshot yeah, but that would only echo around and confuse the rescue party even more.

'That's a negative, sir. If you call out, I will be able to hear you when you're close enough. Murphy should know where about I was when he left me.'

'Alright 4.5. Just a moment.' Doyle understood Cowley gave the order to shout and listened intensively. Nothing. The sound might be slightly altered or even faded down due to this cell they were in. 'Here! Help!' he called out several times, as hard as he could.

'Sir, did you hear me?'

'Again, Doyle.'

Doyle did what he was asked.

'Nothing yet. Will try again in a few minutes,' Cowley said. 'Keep at it. Call me the second you hear us.'

Doyle opened his mouth to acknowledge when a shadow appeared at the edge of of the pit, casting a long, dark silhouette in the now bright afternoon air.

'Yesss!' Doyle exclaimed with a sigh of relief. 'You found us!'

'I did indeed,' said a slow voice. 'If that isn't the nosey parker who was in the bank this morning. I hate to be a party-pooper and spoil your intimate moment, but I've just about had it with you lot. I came to see what was going on, and isn't this is a treat?' Doyle heard the unmistakable cocking of a gun. 'I get to kill two birds with one stone. Uh-uh! Don't move. Keep your hands where they are. Nice and steady, where I can see them.'

'Give it up, Orwell,' said Doyle, who knew it was him he was dealing with. He felt only half as brave as he pretended to be. They were so exposed, he and Bodie. Sitting ducks, ready to be blown to hell. 'The forest is crawling with police. You won't get far. We know your game.'

'That's too bad for you,' said Orwell calmly. 'You and that bloody Bodie cradled so cosily in your arms have been standing in my way long enough. If that son of a bitch wouldn't have tried to pull a gun on me, you two would never be in this pathetic situation. You would have been at home and mull it over and have something to tell to your friends and your grandchildren. But no - you had to act all heroic and tough. Look where it got you? You're going to die in a godforsaken hole in a huge forest. And all because you just couldn't let go.'

'Why did you do it?' Doyle frantically racked his brains. What could he do? If he moved his hands, he was certain Orwell would shoot without a second thought and chase a bullet through Bodie's chest and his at the same time. 'You've got more than enough money in the bank,' Doyle went on. If he could keep Orwell talking, he'd be less likely to shoot. 'We checked. Six million pounds. Why would you want to rob banks? Surely not for the money.' He put a little pressure on his elbows. 'Bodie, wake up,' he whispered. _If you plan on doing some magical trick, now would be a perfect moment sunshine_, he thought.

Orwell laughed, a cold, humourless laugh. 'It's never enough, Mr…?'

'Doyle,' Doyle said automatically.

'Mr Doyle. Never. Money is power. Knowledge isn't. That's the biggest bullshit I've ever heard. It's all about money. Money buys you material gains, it buys you looks, respect, women and men. They all want to be part of my circle of friends, Mr Doyle. They want what I have and what they will never get. They're just a sorry lot of losers, who don't think for themselves and think they are like me when I invite them in. They're not. I just use them, for as long as I see fit. By the time they start asking questions, I've gathered enough new _friends_ to help me get rid of them. It's easy, Mr Doyle. The ignorant need a leader, and I provide them that. I don't tell them to rob a bank for me - they just do it.'

'How about the guns?' Doyle asked. Despite the circumstances, he could not help listening to Orwell. There was an almost mesmerising aura about him. Keep talking, he thought, the longer you talk, the closer they get.

'That was ingenious, you must admit,' said Orwell proudly. He hadn't moved an inch while talking and the hand holding the gun was steady. 'One of my protégées made them for me, using a set of moulds from an army base where he was working. I never wanted them to really work - much too messy. One real gun was all I needed. God forbid those idiots that followed me would have life rounds in their trigger-happy hands!'

'Clever,' Doyle said, putting a little pressure on Bodie again, but still to no avail. 'So you had them steal for you and you gave them … what? Your hand to kiss?'

Again Orwell laughed, amused. 'The nail on its head, Mr Doyle. You have no idea how much they abandoned just to be with me. They were willing to give it all away to "charity" just to be by my side. Do you know, do you have any idea, how many idiots actually believe that crappy Robin Hood stuff? To keep them satisfied and make them believe I gave the money away to the less fortunate, I spend some of it to causes close to their homes. Get a family member proper medical treatment, a new place to live, an education… that was enough. Hardly cost me a penny to buy my own credibility.'

'How about pocket money for your men in black?'

'I kept their share, told them it was going into a trust fund. The bank holding the fund would go bankrupt by the time they'd come to collect of course.'

'I bet you got Jason Bell to arrange that kind of thing for you,' Doyle guessed wildly. For a second Orwell seemed surprised and he hesitated before he sniggered. 'Ah, the little fool sang?'

'Like a caged canary,' Doyle said and tightened his grip on Bodie.

'Not to worry. Money also buys a new identity. I will be out of this country in no time, with a new name and a new face. You will never find me, Mr Doyle.'

And then, Doyle heard it. Voices. Calling his name. Bodie's.

'Bodie! Doyle! Doyle, where are you? Shout if you can hear us!'

'Sorry, gotta go,' said Orwell.

This is it, Doyle thought. He was caught like a rabbit in headlights. Goddammit this was it! This was not how it was supposed to end. Bodie being fully exposed in his arms. Even in a pit like this, now that he had found him, he could do nothing to protect him.

The bang from Orwell's gun preceded another one by a flash of a second. Doyle felt the heat when the bullet grazed the top of his shoulder, just two inches from the jugular in his neck.

'Got ya,' whispered Bodie. His hand held Doyle's gun and it shook heavily, but he had not missed. Orwell stared for a few seconds in shocked disbelief at the hole Bodie had blown in his abdomen, then fell backwards.

.-.-.-.

(tbc)


	17. It's a wrap

Chapter 17: It's a wrap

* * *

Cowley held two brown paper bags in his hands: one was for Doyle, the other for Bodie. When he exited the elevator, he met with the doctor who had treated his men. The phone call to HQ had been short: both men were back from surgery and if he wanted to, Cowley could see them. About time, Cowley thought. They'd been in surgery for hours.

'Doctor Munroe,' he nodded by means of greeting. 'How are they?'

'Considering all they've gone through, reasonable,' said Munroe. 'Bodie's ankle will heal given time and patience, the head injury is treated and stitched and he's on a cocktail of heavy antibiotics. Of course the severe concussion is serious, but luckily it's not a skull fracture. He's strong and when the fever from the pneumonia will be gone, he will start feeling better, I'm sure. He'll have a hell of headache for a while, though. It's sound to say that Bodie won't be working for at least three months.'

Cowley grimaced. 'He already complains when he's off duty for ten days,' he said, remembering Bodie being off duty with torn ligaments and the events that followed in what should have been a quiet weekend away. 'How about Doyle?'

The doctor took off his glasses, cleaned them and put them back on. 'Not bad either, but his injury was a different chapter.'

'So what was wrong with his leg?' asked Cowley, as he and the doctor walked through corridor to the rooms where the two agents were.

'Compartment syndrome,' explained the doctor. 'I suspect that that bolt you told me about, hit a blood vessel. It tore and blood kept leaking into his leg. It couldn't get back up to his heart. If he hadn't been treated, he would have bled to death eventually.'

Cowley fought with both anger as well as worry. Stupid fool. Doyle had been walking around too long, and he, Cowley, should have seen it and order him home. All that blood pumping down and not coming back up again must have been the reason why Doyle had been so dizzy and exhausted in the end too.

'If he had taken rest after that blast, it might have healed without further problems and he probably never would have noticed,' the doctor continued. 'But since he was running around to find Bodie, he only worsened it.'

Cowley nodded. 'Yes. Not an entirely useless exercise. In the end, he did save Bodie's life. I'm not sure we would have found him if Doyle hadn't.'

Munroe smiled gingerly. 'Mr Cowley - it's always been like that, isn't it? Especially with these two. One gets in trouble, and the other one comes to the rescue.'

Cowley smiled too. 'And the shoulder?'

'A mere flesh wound. Nothing too serious.' The doctor opened the door to a room and to Cowley's surprise he saw Bodie in one bed and Doyle in the other one. 'You put them in the same room?'

'Yes. One of your men asked me to do that.'

'Oh?'

'Murphy, I think it was,' said Munroe with a puzzled look on his face. 'He said they have a tendency to start looking for each other when they're apart for too long.'

Cowley couldn't suppress an appreciative smile and nodded. 'Thank you doctor. You did a fine job, as usual.' He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

Bodie, in the left bed, was asleep peacefully. Though still pale, the unhealthy shine had disappeared from his face and he looked calm. Battered and exhausted, the gash still looking thick and swollen, but he slept undisturbed, his breathing regular and calm, his face almost serene. His leg was in a cast in an intricate metal container and countless tubes and wires were entering and exiting his body. Poor man. He didn't look he would be up very soon. Quietly Cowley put the bag with grapes on the bedside table. He wasn't sure Bodie would be able to keep them down.

Doyle was asleep too. He was lying on his side, and all Cowley could see where his curls on the white pillow. When he walked around the bed to see the agent's face, he noticed the same calm, relaxed sleep in the second man. Doyle looked pale still, just like Bodie, and like Bodie he too needed bags filled with blood and fluids to get his body to work normally again. Both men were still not out of the woods, so to speak, but they were together again, and Cowley was certain their undisturbed rest was the result of that.

He put the second bag down, looked at his operatives one more time, and left the hospital room. They were back. Both of them.

-.-.-.-

'Hey Bodie?'

'Yeah?'

'The Cow's been in.'

'Think so?'

'Yeah. Brought us grapes.'

'O. That's nice.'

'Bodie - why are we in the same room?'

'Dunno.'

'What d'you remember?'

'Not much.'

'The forest?'

'Yeah, the forest.'

'George Orwell?'

'Who? Ray...'

'The guy who tried to kill you.'

'Please... Wanna sleep.'

'Oh great. I save your hide and you want to sleep.'

'Yeah.'

'Lovely bed side manners you have.'

'Ray please - I've got a splitting headache.'

'Really?'

'Yeah.'

'You want me to call a nurse? Up your dose?'

'No. Just want you to shut up.'

'Nag nag.'

'Yeah.'

'Bodie?'

'What?'

'You'll be alright, mate. In a few days, you'll feel better.'

'Yeah.'

…

'Ray?'

'Quiet. You need to sleep.'

'Thanks, mate. For coming to my rescue.'

'Anytime, sunshine. Anytime.'

'Sorry for your leg.'

'That's okay. Sleep, sunshine. We'll talk when you feel better.'

''kay. Cheers.'

_Anytime sunshine. Anytime._

_

* * *

_

THE END

* * *

_That's it, once again. It's a wrap, as Murphy would say. This was a labour of love, it was great writing and with all the comments I got it wasn't difficult to find my mojo and keep at it. Thanks for everyone who went through the trouble of reviewing and/or mailing me about it. Nina, you know this one was for you, and it will be for ever more._

Elszy, May 2010


End file.
